Revamped  The Dead Don't Sleep
by StarGazeEyes
Summary: Sally. A perfectly ordinary girl in the 19th century. One Halloween night - everything changes.  A revamped and edited version of my original :
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: I own nothing which is too bad because The Nightmare before Christmas is an amazing film. I'm just not that clever. **

**Anyway this is an edited version of my original The Dead Don't Sleep – some of the plot line has been changed as I have not got my original notes and I have no idea where I was going with the plot as it has been at least a year since I even looked at this chapter. **

**So taking in account some of the advice I was given through reviews (Thank you so much by the way, they really gave me some insight) my writing should be somewhat improved :). WARNING: one of two SWEAR words! **

Chapter One: A Hellish Halloween

High pitched ringing pierced the tense air brewing outside Silvermarrow Manor; startling a rare trick-or-treater who paused in slight paranoia before scurrying along the street to harass the dozing residents further west.

The shrillness of the doorbell had shocked Sally into a temporary heart attack and dispersed the thick fog that her frantic, dysfunctional thoughts had conjured.

To add further to her state of fright, a brief flash of lightning clashed in the background, not two miles from the manor followed by a deep-throated rumbling which in her opinion, was much too loud and much too close to her.

Looming ominously in the unnatural light, the overtly-polished wooden door seemed out of place with the torn disarranged curtains on display in the lounge window.

However this sight still managed to distress Sally.

She transferred what little weight she had from one leg to the other, her muslin dress brushing the hard floor of the steps as she turned towards the heavens.

It wasn't raining but masses of dark clouds fled across the night sky coupled with a fierce wind which screamed and thrashed the decaying leaves, the elm trees to the side of the manor and Sally's crimson trees in its rage.

A light encased the door frame – she could fell the heat it radiated on her back.

There was going to be an explosion – metaphorically of course.

The volcanic woman was brimming with fury and the only source of protection Sally now had was the mahogany threshold.

She couldn't help but feel cynical towards her future safety.

Her shivering body longed to be wrapped up warm in her bed like she was that afternoon.

In what felt like her last moments before her demise, Sally allowed herself a minute to remember the last few hours- exactly what she had been trying to repress.

The afternoon had been in a dry scalding heat wave. Light seared through her balcony window – causing Sally's headache to spike in pain.

Burying her forehead in the crisp white sheets, she tried to surrender to sleep.

However the effort had been in vain as her somewhat irritable father had rapped his bony knuckles in impatience on the rattling door; insisting she join him in dining with the new mayor and his eldest son.

With a loud protesting moan, she left the comfort of her bed whilst calling for Anne's assistance, the blonde middle age maid had glided through the door carrying heaven knows how many petticoats and a simple but elegant muslin dress, shooing Sally behind the dressing curtain.

By the time she was ready to leave, the clock had struck three and father was ushering her out the front door and into the awaiting carriage.

Thus the dreadful evening had begun; upon their arrival in the town square a stout grey-haired man clothed in a grey suit, which his stomach seemed to protest against as the buttons strained on the jacket. Towering over him was a man who fingers were podgy like sausages with greasy blond hair slicked back over his skull.

The stout man was the mayor unfortunately so manners had to be upheld, therefore when Sally grasped the mayor's outstretched hand, she had to contain her grimace as the slimy texture of his palm covered hers – she managed it but just barely.

Pulling her hand away gently she clasped it with the other hand, unconsciously wringing it. It was the only outwards sign of her nerves.

The Mayors son, Master Scott. to be specific, sent such waves of revulsion down Sally's spine that any thought of food she had, gave her the urge to vomit.

So when Master Garts offered his arm to escort her to his residence, she politely declined, preferring not to be sick in company.

Upon the arrival at the mayor's residence which was at least triple the size of their own; her father began a seemingly never ending speech revering the manor's beauty.

Sally was sure she never had been as embarrassed as she was in that moment.

The politician brushed off the compliments with a wave of his hand and an exclamation of "it's nothing much really!"

The memory of the dinner was fuzzy as she didn't pay any attention whatsoever to the events which occurred in the dining hall. However Sally did recall aptly the sickness she felt during the meal due to the proximity of Master Garts on her left.

With a plea for fresh air, she had excused her self from the table. Following through the much-too-grand hall, she had exited the manor hastily and sat among the garden's tulips, drawing out a hollow breath which made a misty cloud of white in the air.

All of a sudden the hairs on the nape of her neck had shivered as the feeling of being watched grew in her stomach. Her worry increased with each wind that passed and the shaking of the trees behind her until the urge to run overwhelmed her and she re-enter the house, grasping the handle and practically tearing the door off its hinges in her haste.

Back pressed against the entrance, Sally steadied her pounding heart, clutching it as if she would die of fright. Voices drifted from a little way down the hall – her curiosity won over her fear.

Blood pounding, as a chill crept over her soul, Sally trembled as she peered into the drawing room curiosity peaking when the voices became rapid. She spied the mayor prodding the fire with a poker, attempting to start a fire. Further inside her father was clutching his head in his hands, the plump red armchair sacking beneath him.

Master Garts was nowhere to be seen.

"Couldn't believe it when I heard this morning – such a loss, an unnecessary loss" the monotone pitch had informed her, this was the mayor speaking. He cleared his throat rapidly before proceeding in a drone to recall the event.

"Mrs Carrion, the lady who was lately widowed – she insisted on showing me the table settings for the Christmas party. As I recollect she had gotten halfway through her delightful speech when the butcher from down the road – Bernard Motts called about the meat which ….."

By this time Sally had seriously contemplated running home even if she was leaving unescorted.

One particularly loud word, on the other hand, had recaptured her attention to the politician's irrelevant ramblings

"**Murder **again in the east neighbourhood. His mother is undoubtedly in hysterics, she hasn't left her manor all day."

That was as much as Sally had been willing to hear, she felt certain her fathers expression was a diluted mirror image of her own.

Shock and a deep grief.

Without a thought, the door was flung wide open and uneven footsteps slapped the dark cobbled streets – eastward bound.

The sudden opening of the entrance was enough to pull Sally back into the present. In the darkened light, the figure in the doorway painted a horrific picture.

A distraught woman – in her late 50's slumped baleful in the entrance.

Her brown hair was dragged back into a messy bun, strands of erratic hair waved in the winds rage.

Her icy blue eyes were dilated, most likely from alcohol consumption, they sneered maliciously at Sally's appearance, as large clumps of mascara drooped and slid down the bagging skin of her cheek.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mrs Skellington a.k.a. Jack's mother's normally lilting, slightly mocking voice was coarse and stalling.

Once again she surveyed Sally's muddied petticoat then moved on to glaring distastefully at the disfigured red hair, the rip across the hem of her dress and the distinguished mud mark on her jaw where she had landed quite ungracefully in to the dirt.

Sally wasn't very tall compared to Mrs Skellington in fact she looked like a dwarf in comparison even though she was quite tall for her age.

With as much composure she could muster, Sally managed to speak somewhat calmly

"I'm sorry for the unexpected visit Mrs Skellington" Sally lost some of her nerve at the stare the giant in front of her was giving and so resorted to speaking to the floor and her trembling hands "- I was hoping to speak with Jack – if he's not too busy."

With her sentence finally finished, she could look up again however the sight was a terror to behold.

Mrs Skellington – a usually collected, dignified woman – was shaking with poorly disguised laughter; it was not joyful but full of bitterness.

Her crimson cheeks bulged and her aqua eyes gleamed manically in the steadily growing fog.

A cackle erupted out of sheer despair as Mrs Skellington hiccupped through out her speech:

"Unless you can contact spirits (which I doubt you can) –"a long boisterous bout of hiccups occurred then she proceeded to say "-you've wasted your time coming here. He's dead."

After one last lingering glare at Sally, she toppled over into a drunken coma-like sleep.

Dumb-founded, Sally stood still.

Words washing over her in their depths.

"He's dead."

And with that despairing thought, Sally and the eyes which watched her, followed the pull of their hearts into the foggy night.

**Author's Note – The chapter took me longer than I thought it would but I blame Youtube for that. So any thoughts? Any at all?**

**Love it? Hate it? **

**Hopefully I will update again soon. **

**Love **

**StarGazeEyes *.***


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N – You'd be amazed at how much a girl can write when she's putting off college work.**

**Please don't kill me.**

**I****'****m****trying****to****get****back****into****writing****as****my****NBC****muse****was****temporarily****lost****(DAMN****YOU****SATNAV)****and****replaced****by****Bleach,****my****own****stupid****novel****and****dull****thoughts****regarding****my****future**** – ****sigh.**

**StarGazeEyes: Jack do you want to –**

**Jack: BOO! **

**StarGazeEyes: o_O what are you doing?**

**Jack: Being my own bony self again**

**StarGazeEyes: Awww. Do the disclaimer.**

**Jack: But I'm the Pum-**

**StarGazeEyes: Don't care**

**Jack: Listen everyone. StarGazeEyes owns nothing, she is poor and needy and stup-**

**StarGazeEyes: They get it. You're supposed to be nice :(**

**Jack:****It****'****s****my****day****off,****anyway****here****'****s****Chapter****Two.**

Chapter Two: Drunk as a Skunk

To say she was upset was a gross understatement to say the least.

Fifteen years ago on that very day, he had kicked the proverbial bucket and the bastard still had the balls to cling to her thoughts like the fungus infected plague he was.

She had to marry an arsehole.

His self righteous smirk wreaking havoc on her 'delicate sensibilities'; appearing and disappearing repeatedly in her nightmares. Waking in a cold sweat among the satin sheets, she'd shudder and crave the coarse feel of his skin on hers. Now her son had popped his clogs too.

She had shit luck.

Tinkling glass and an expanding red stain on her loosely wrapped dressing gown proved that her trembling hands had smashed her glass of Merlot – again. Beads of the crimson liquid ran down chipped fingernails and tiny shards of glass were embedded into her palm.

The glow from the fire was dimming so there was only just enough light for the glass to twinkle in her hands but not enough to remove it. There was no pain so she saw no reason to fuss, it wasn't as if she had anyone to impress. The maids had all scuttled off to their families as she had announced, in a monotonous voice, that they could have a few days off. She was alone.

A loud clanging noise announced that she had an unwelcome guest.

There were three possible people who would have the nerve to visit at such an atrocious time. The first being Mrs Carrion, the fat nosy shrew from the less well-off streets west, who had no sense of propriety and would visit with the sole purpose of monologuing about her deceased husband and child. She could practically hear the enthusiastic drivel spewing from the woman's shrivelled lips "How much we have in common now! _Such_ a shame He was so handsome and to have died so _young_! I feel your pain. My son was onl-… " The pain of listening to such idiocy would be enough to send her to Bedlam – there would be no doubt that she would go mad.

The second possibility was a stray child who was unaware of the monster behind the door but she was certain the majority of the town would have heard the news regarding her son and warned their offspring accordingly. No one knows how much the widow had snapped.

And lastly was the vile brat from the west side of town – it was all her fucking fault she now was alone.

All her fault.

With her doe-like eyes, her ridiculous delusions of adventure and her constant disobedience.

The brat damned them all.

Without the money to fund her indulgences and a sudden lack of heir; she would be out on the street by the end of the month. Being - dare she say it – a whore.

As if the first time wasn't bad enough.

Not even bothering to pick up the glass nor fix the stray brown strands of hair which fell in her eyes, she stumbled over to the floor length curtains. Grasping the torn material, she attempted to spy who was at the door.

"Fuck"

She should have known.

The lank red hair made it obvious who was at the door even though she couldn't see the scrawny girl's – Sarah was it?- face. Where the hell was her escort? Was she stupid enough to run three miles _alone?_Apparently so.

She had no urge to answer the door. If she did, she'd be obligated to explain the circumstances of her son's death, the majority of which she didn't know, to a snivelling mess.

The obnoxious arsehole of a husband was probably laughing his arse off at her expense in hell.

Consoling others was never one of her talents, neither was suppressing her anger. By opening the door she'd be forced to do both.

However, by not opening the door, she was admitting she couldn't handle the death of her son and that was _not_an option (also, she added wearily, the longer the brat stays here, the longer it'll take to sweep her footprints off the porch).

Wine was needed. She gulped down another glassful (she had a stack of new glasses near her armchair, as previous experience told her that, with alcohol, she had a tendency to smash them) The world became a bit blurrier but she managed to stumble her way to the front door. After choosing which door to open (for some reason there was two; she only recalled only having one) and fumbling with the lock, she pulled open the door and arranged her face in the scariest manner she could.

It seemed to work.

The child looked like she shat herself. Then again, she always did.

Her tongue seemed to work on it's own accord – "What the fuck are you doin'?" She meant to say 'here' at the end of her sentence but the intoxication was fogging up her thoughts. She was vaguely aware of scrutinizing Sa-ah-lly's appearance and the pathetic mumblings of a low class child but she couldn't gather up enough patience to care.

The only words which interested her were 'Jack' and 'talk'. Both considering her state of mind and the impossibility tickled a funny bone she never knew she had.

Her vocal cords vibrated and noise came out but if you asked her the next day she'd have no recollection of laughing and would more than likely chase you round the manor with a broomstick trying to knock some sense into your brain.

The laughing fit started a chain reaction of hiccups so her informative speech regarding the impossibility of contacting the dead wasn't as biting as she'd hoped it would be but she felt the general message of 'Piss off. I'm trying to get so drunk I can't remember I'm in mourning and soon poverty' was demonstrated quite vividly by collapsing in an alcoholic heap.

Her last coherent thought before she blacked out was – 'When the fuck did the brat get two shadows?'

**StarGazeEyes:** **I****feel****this****is****better****than****my****last****chapter****because****I****was****reading****over****it****and****thinking**** '****I****should****be****shot****'**

**Jack: What have you done? What have yooou done? **

**StarGazeEyes:****I****know****right****-_-****This****chapter****is****really****short****but****I****feel****more****frequent****but****short****chapters****are****better****than****long****rare****chapter.****Plus****I****have****no****idea****what****you****'****re****thinking;****no****one****reviews****anymore****:****'****(**

**Jack: There, there**

**StarGazeEyes:****Jack!*****glomps***

**Jack: *emotional blackmail* Help me by reviewing!**


End file.
